IN HAYIN' TIME by May Phillips Tatro(Dedicated to Mr. Ed. S. Whittaker).

Tell you what I like the best of anything on earth,An' it's about the last of June it has its natural birth;It comes a kind o' lazy like an' spreads itself aroundAn' what ain't floatin' in the air just settles on the ground.

The smell it has, I'm tellin' you, ain't no imported scent,But just a breath from heaven you think God must have lent.These perfume chaps have somethin' ther' a callin' "New-mown hay."But, landy sakes, my hayin' smell discounts it any day.

The condiments that make it up in no way can be beat,An' if you've never heard it, I'll give you the receipt.Take twelve long hours brimmin' full and spillin' every-whereOf the yellerest kind of sunshine an' the softest wafts of air;Now mix these up with smells that come a wafted to and froFrom pastur' lots an' woods an' fields an' where pond liliesgrow,An' posies from the garden, an' you'll need an extra messOf pine, wild rose, an' such as these proportioned more orless,Then add your clover red an' white an' this receipt of mineWill furnish you what I shall call the smell in hayin' time.

I'd ruther loaf around the field an' hear the mower humThan see the biggest show on earth, that's what I would, bygum.I like to lop among the hay an' sort a doze an' dream.Then wake again, then drowse some more till life begins toseemLike them queer poets tell about, an' then I lay an' thinkAn' watch the shadders patchin" round an' dodgin' quick-a-wink;An' wonderin' why I wasn't made so's I could born a rhyme,I wouldn't write but one a year, jest one—in hayin' time.

I'd tell about the sky-lark with his gladsome soarin' lay,The crickets song, an' dronin' bees, an' lumberin' loads o' hay;I'd speak about the spring time when early mornin' lightTrimmed every piled-up haycock with dew-drops blinkin'bright,

Like as though some baby stars forgot to go awayOr night was tired of holdin' 'em, an' dropped 'em intoday.But I can't do it, farthermore, I ain't agoin' to try—There ain't no poems in some folks, no more 'n a pig canfly.But there's one chap that's got the knack o' tellin' what hesees,An' he can understand the whisperin' of the treesAn' what the brook's a sayin', an' about the "Old Swimmin'Hole,"The garter snakes across your path an' the little meddermole, The rustling corn, the old rail fence, the mournin' dove's softcall,The freshness of the spring time an' the colorin' of the fall, The glimmerin' sheen of summer an' old Winter's blusterin'snow; In fact, there's nothin' nature claims but what he's sure toknow.

An' as you're readin' what he writes you foller him along,An', durn me, if you don't forget it's just a poet's song,For you can see them very things, an' almost yell for joy,For all the years they slip away an' you're a country boy,A craunchin' young green apples, or a racin' through thebrush,Or over logs a stumblin' into blue-flag bogs ker slush,Or follerin' 'long the cow-path with your bare feet shufflin'slowSo's to hear the bull frogs' orchestra an' watch the dust aglowWith lightnin' bugs. But there, I jing. I've hit upon a plan.I'll ast Jim Whitcomb Riley, for you know he's jest the manI'm talkin' of, an' see if he won't write some sort o' rhyme

About Me

Since childhood I have been interested in the world of natural aromatics. This interest gradually developed into our home business White Lotus Aromatics. Keypoints along this aromatic journey were:
1) living on a small farm in India where many tropical fragrant plants were to be found
2) a career in horticulture, highlighted by working on a formal garden estate, Filoli
3) many journeys throughout the length and breadth of India to explore India's ancient and modern aromatic traditions.
Please note that I have an interest in the wonderful world of natural aromatics, but have no therapeutic expertise. Any mention of ayurveda or other traditional healing systems in strictly for cultural interest.